Discipline: A Novel

DISCIPLINE.

CHAPTER I.

I have heard it remarked, that he who writes his own history
ought to possess Irish humour, Scotch prudence, and English
sincerity;--the first, that his work may be read; the second, that
it may be read without injury to himself; the third, that the
perusal of it may be profitable to others. I might, perhaps, with
truth declare, that I possess only the last of those qualifications.
But, besides that my readers will probably take the liberty of
estimating for themselves my merits as a narrator, I suspect that
professions of humility may possibly deceive the professor himself;
and that, while I am honestly confessing my disqualifications, I
may be secretly indemnifying my pride, by glorying in the candour
of my confession.

Any expression of self-abasement might, indeed, appear peculiarly
misplaced as a preface to whole volumes of egotism; the
world being generally uncharitable enough to believe, that vanity
may somewhat influence him who chooses himself for his theme.
Nor can I be certain that this charge is wholly inapplicable to me;
since it is notorious to common observation, that, rather than
forego their darling subject, the vain will expatiate even on their
errors. A better motive, however, mingles with those which impel
me to relate my story. It is no unworthy feeling which leads such
as are indebted beyond return, to tell of the benefits they have
received; or which prompts one who has escaped from imminent
peril, to warn others of the danger of their way.

It is, I believe, usual with those who undertake to be their own
biographers, to begin with tracing their illustrious descent. I fear
this portion of my history must be compiled from very scanty
materials; for my father, the only one of the race who was ever
known to me, never mentioned his family, except to preface a
philippic against all dignities in church and state. Against these
he objected, as fostering "that aristocratical contumely, which
flesh and blood cannot endure; " a vice which I have heard him
declare to be, above all others, the object of his special antipathy.
For this selection, which will probably obtain sympathy only from
the base-born, my father was not without reason; for, to the pride
of birth it was doubtless owing that my grandfather, a cadet of an
ancient family, was doomed to starve upon a curacy, in revenge
for his contaminating the blood of the Percys by an unequal alliance;
and when disappointment and privation had brought him to an
early grave, it was probably the game sentiment which induced his
relations to prolong his punishment in the person of his widow and
infants, who, with all possible dignity and unconcern, were left to
their fate. My father, therefore, began the world with very
slender advantages; an accident of which he was so far from
being ashamed, that he often triumphantly recorded it, ascribing
his subsequent affluence to his own skill and diligence alone.

He was, as I first recollect him, a muscular dark-complexioned
man, with a keen black eye, cased in an extraordinary perplexity
of wrinkle, and shaded by a heavy beetling eyebrow. The peculiarity
of his face was a certain arching near the corner of his
upper lip, to which it was probably owing that a smile did not
improve his countenance; but this was of the less consequence, as
he did not often smile. He had, indeed, arrived at that age when
gravity is at least excusable; although no trace of infirmity appeared
in his portly figure and strong-sounding tread.
His whole appearance and demeanour were an apt contrast to
those of my mother, in whose youthful form and features symmetry
gained a charm from that character of fragility which presages
untimely decay, and that air of melancholy which seems to welcome
decline. I have her figure now before me. I recollect the tender
brightness of her eyes, as laying her hand upon my head, she
raised them silently to heaven. I love to remember the fine flush
that was called to her cheek by the fervour of the half-uttered
blessing. She was, in truth, a gentle being; and bore my wayward
humour with an angel's patience. But she exercised a control too
gentle over a spirit which needed to be reined by a firmer hand
than hers. She shrank from bestowing even merited reproof, and
never inflicted pain without suffering much more than she caused.
Yet, let not these relentings of nature be called weakness--or if
the stern moralist refuse to spare, let it disarm his severity, to learn
that I was an only child.

I know not whether it was owing to the carelessness of nurses,
or the depravity of waiting-maids, or whether, "to say all, nature
herself wrought in me so;" but, from the earliest period of my recollection,
I furnish an instance at least, if not a proof, of the corruption
of human kind; being proud, petulant, and rebellious.
Some will probably think the growth of such propensities no more
unaccountable than that of briers and thorns; being prepared, from
their own experience and observation, to expect that both should
spring without any particular culture. But whoever is dissatisfied
with this compendious deduction, may trace my faults to certain
accidents in my early education.

I was, of course, a person of infinite importance to my mother.
While she was present, her eye followed my every motion, and
watched every turn of my countenance. Anxious to anticipate
every wish, and vigilant to relieve every difficulty, she never thought
of allowing me to pay the natural penalties of impatience or self-indulgence.
If one servant was driven away by my caprice, another
attended my bidding. If my toys were demolished, new baubles
were ready at my call. Even when my mother was reluctantly
obliged to testify displeasure, her coldness quickly yielded to my
tears; and I early discovered that I had only to persevere in the
demonstrations of obstinate sorrow, in order to obtain all the privileges
of the party offended. When she was obliged to consign
me to my maid, it was with earnest injunctions that I should be
amused,--injunctions which it every day became more difficult to
fulfil. Her return was always marked by fond inquiries into my
proceedings during her absence; and I must do my attendants the
justice to say, that their replies were quite as favourable as truth
would permit. They were too politic to hazard, at once, my favour
and hers by being officiously censorious. On the contrary, they knew
how to ingratiate themselves, by rehearsing my witticisms, with
such additions and improvements as made my original property in
them rather doubtful. My mother, pleased with the imposition,
usually listened with delight; or, if she suspected the fraud, was
too gentle to repulse it with severity, and too partial herself, to
blame what she ascribed to a kindred partiality. On my father's
return from the counting-house, my double rectified bon mots were
commonly repeated to him, in accents low enough to draw my attention,
as to somewhat not intended for my ear, yet so distinct as
not to balk my curiosity. This record of my wit served a triple
purpose. It confirmed my opinion of my own consequence, and of
the vast importance, of whatever I was pleased to say or do: it
strengthened the testimony which my mother's visitors bore to my
miraculous prematurity; and it established in my mind that association
so favourable to feminine character, between repartee and
applause!

To own the truth, my mother lay under strong temptation to report
my sallies, for my father always listened to them with symtoms
of pleasure. They sometimes caused his countenance to relax into
a smile; and sometimes, either when they were more particularly
brilliant, or his spirits in a more harmonious tone, he would say,
"Come, Fanny, get me something nice for supper, and keep Ellen
in good humour, and I won't go to the club to-night." He generally,
however, had reason to repent of this resolution; for though
my mother performed her part to perfection, I not unfrequently
experienced, in my father's presence, that restraint which has fettered
elder wits under a consciousness of being expected to entertain.
Or, if my efforts were more successful he commonly closed
his declining eulogiums by saying, "It is a confounded pity she is
a girl. If she had been of the right sort, she might have got into
Parliament, and made a figure with the best of them. But now
what use is her sense of?"--"I hope it will contribute to her happiness,"
said my mother, sighing, as if she had thought the fulfilment
of her hope a little doubtful. "Poh!" quoth my father; "no fear
of her happiness. Won't she have two hundered thousand pounds,
and never know the trouble of earning it, nor need to do one thing
from morning to night but amuse herself?" My mother made no
answer:--so by this and similar conversations, a most just and desirable
connexion was formed in my mind between the ideas of
amusement and happiness, of labour and misery.

If to such culture as this I owed the seeds of my besetting sins,
at least, it must be owned that the soil was propitious, for the
bitter root spread with disastrous vigour; striking so deep, that
the iron grasp of adversity, the giant strength of awakened conscience,
have failed to tear it wholly from the heart, though they
have crushed its outward luxuriance.

Self-importance was fixed in my mind long before I could
examine the grounds of this preposterous sentiment. It could not
properly be said to rest on my talents, my beauty, or my prospects.
Though these had each its full value in my estimation, they were
but the trappings of my idol, which, like other idols, owed its dignity
chiefly to the misjudging worship which I saw it receive. Children
seldom reflect upon their own sentiments; and their self-conceit
may, humanly speaking, be incurable before they have an idea of its
turpitude, or even of its existence. During the many years in in which
mine influenced every action and every thought, whilst it hourly
appeared in the forms of arrogance, of self-will, impatience of reproof,
love of flattery, and love of sway, I should have heard of its
very existence with an incredulous smile, or with an indignation
which proved its power. And when at last I learnt to bestow on
one of its modifications a name which the world agrees to treat
with some respect, I could own that I was even "proud of my
pride;" representing every instance of a contrary propensity as the
badge of a servile and grovelling disposition.

Meanwhile my encroachments upon the peace and liberty of all
who approached me, were permitted for the very reason which
ought to have made them be repelled, namely, that I was but a
child! I was the dictatrix of my playfellows, the tyrant of the
servants, and the idolized despot of both my parents. My father,
indeed, sometimes threatened transient rebellion, and announced
opposition in the tone of one determined to conquer or die; but,
though justice might be on his side, perseverance, a surer omen of
success, was upon mine. Hour after hour--nay, day after day--I
could whine, pout, or importune, encouraged by the remembrance
of former victories. My obstinacy always at length prevailed, and of
course gathered strength for future combat. Nor did it signify how
trivial might be the matter originally in dispute. Nothing could
be unimportant which opposed my sovereign will. That will became
every day more imperious; so that however much it governed
others, I was myself still more its slave, knowing no rest or peace
but in its gratification. I had often occasion to rue its triumphs,
since not even the cares of my fond mother could always shield me
from the consequences of my perverseness; and by the time I had
reached my eighth year, I was one of the most troublesome, and, in
spite of great natural hilarity of temper, at times one of the most
unhappy beings in that great metropolis which contains such
variety of annoyance and of misery.

Upon retracing this sketch of the progress and consequences of
my early education, I begin to fear that groundless censure may
fall upon the guardians of my infancy; and that defect of understanding
or of principle may be imputed to those who so unsuccessfully
executed their trust. Let me hasten to remove such a prejudice.
My father's understanding was respectable in the line to
which he chose to confine its exertions. Indifference to my happiness
or my improvement cannot surely be alleged against him,
for I was the pride of his heart. I have seen him look up from his
newspaper, while reading the "shipping intelligence," or the opposition
speeches, to listen to the praises of my beauty or my talents;
and, except when his temper was irritated by my perverseness, I
was the object of his almost exclusive affection. But he was a man
of business. His days were spent in the toil and bustle of commerce;
and, if the evening brought him to his home, it was not
unnatural that he should there seek domestic peace and relaxation,
--a purpose wholly incompatible with the correction of a
spoiled child. My mother was indeed one of the finer order of
spirits. She had an elegant, a tender, a pious mind. Often did
she strive to raise my young heart to Him from whom I had so
lately received my being. But, alas! her too partial fondness
overlooked in her darling the growth of that pernicious weed,
whose shade is deadly to every plant of celestial origin. She continued
unconsciously to foster in me that spirit of pride, which may
indeed admit the transient admiration of excellence, or even the
passing fervours of gratitude, but which is manifestly opposite to
vital piety--to that piety which consists in a surrender of self-will,
of self-righteousness, of self in every form, to the Divine justice, holiness,
and sovereignty. It was, perhaps, for training us to this temper,
of such difficult, yet such indispensable attainment, that the discipline
of parental authority was intended. I have long seen reason
to repent the folly which deprived me of the advantages of this
useful apprenticeship, but this conviction has been the fruit of discipline
far more painful.

In the meantime, my self-will was preparing for me an immediate
punishment, and eventually a heavy, an irremediable misfortune.
I had just entered my ninth year, when one evening an
acquaintance of my mother's sent me an invitation to her box in
the theatre. As I had been for some days confined at home by a
cold and sore throat, my mother judged it proper to refuse. But
the message had been unwarily delivered in my hearing, and I was
clamorous for permission to go. The danger of compliance being,
in this instance, manifest, my mother resisted my entreaties with
unwonted firmness. After arguing with me, and soothing me in
vain, she took the tone of calm command, and forbade me to urge
her further. I then had recourse to a mode of attack which I had
often found successful, and began to scream with all my might.
My mother, though with tears in her eyes, ordered a servant to
take me out of the room. But, at the indignity of plebeian coercion,
my rage was so nearly convulsive, that, in terror, she consented to
let me remain, upon condition of quietness. I was, however, so
far from fulfilling my part of this compact, that my father, who
returned in the midst of the contest, lost patience; and turning
somewhat testily to my mother, said, "The child will do herself
more harm by roaring there, than by going to fifty plays."

I observed (for my agonies by no means precluded observation)
that my mother only replied by a look, which seemed to say that
she could have spared this apostrophe; but my father, growing a
little more out of humour as he felt himself somewhat in the wrong,
chose to answer to that look, by saying, in an angry tone, "It
really becomes you well, Mrs. Percy, to pretend that I spoil the
child, when you know you can refuse her nothing."

"That, I fear," said my mother, with a sigh, "will be Ellen's great
misfortune. Her dispositions seem such as to require restraint."

"Poh!" quoth my father, "her dispositions will do well enough.
A woman is the better for a spice of the devil!"--an aphorism,
which we have owed at first to some gentleman, who, like my father,
had slender experience in the pungencies of female character.

Gathering hopes from this dialogue, I redoubled my vociferation,
till my father, out of all patience closed the contest, as others had
been closed before, by saying, "Well, well! you perverse, ungovernable
brat, do take your own way and have done with it." I
instantly profited by the permission, was dressed, and departed for
the play.

I paid dearly for my triumph. The first consequence of it was
a dangerous fever. My mother--but what words can do justice to
the cares which saved my quivering life--what language shall paint
the tenderness that watched my restless bed, and pillowed my
aching temples on her bosom--that shielded from the light the
burning eye, and warded from every sound the morbid ear--that
persevered in these cares of love till nature failed beneath the toil,
and till, with her own precious life, she had redeemed me from the
grave! My mother--first, fondest love of my soul! is this barren,
feeble record, the only return I can make for all thy matchless
affection?

After hanging for three weeks upon the very brink of the grave,
I recovered. But anxiety and fatigue had struck to the gentlest,
the kindest of hearts; and she to whom I twice owed my life, was
removed from me before I had even a thought of my vast debt of
gratitude. For some months her decline was visible to every eye,
except that of the poor heedless being who had most reason to
dread its progress. Yet even I, when I saw her fatigued with my
importunate prattle, or exhausted by my noisy merriment, would
check my spirits, soften my voice to a whisper, and steal round her
sofa on tiptoe. Ages would not efface from my mind the tenderness
with which she received these feeble attributes of an affection,
alas! so dearly earned. By degrees, the constant intercourse
which had been the blessing of my life was exchanged for short
occasional visits to my mother's chamber. Again these were
restricted to a few moments, while the morning lent her a short-lived
vigour; and a few more, while I received her evening blessing.

At length three days passed, in which I had not seen my mother.
I was then summoned to her presence; and, full of the improvident
rapture of childhood, I bounded gaily to her apartment.
But all gladness fled, when my mother, folding me in her arms,
burst into a feeble cry, followed by the big convulsive sob which
her weakness was unable to repress. Many a time did she press
her pale lips to every feature of my face; and often strove to
speak, but found no utterance. An attendant, who was a stranger
to me, now approached to remove me, saying, that my mother
would injure herself. In the dread of being parted from her
child, my fond parent found momentary strength; and, still
clinging to me, hid her face on my shoulder, and became more
composed. "Ellen," said she, in a feeble broken voice, "lift up thy
little hands, and pray that we may meet again." Unconscious of
her full meaning, I knelt down by her; and, resting my lifted
hands upon her knees as I was wont to do while she taught me
to utter my infant petitions, I said, "Oh! let mamma see her dear
Ellen again!" Once more she made me repeat my simple prayer:
then, bending over me, she rested her locked hands upon my head,
and the warmth of a last blessing burst into tremulous interrupted
whispers. One only of these parting benedictions is imprinted on
my mind. Wonder impressed it there at first: and, when nearly
effaced by time, the impression was restored with force irresistible.
These were the well-remembered words: "Oh, be kinder than
her earthly parents, and show thyself a father, though it be in
chastising."

Many a tender wish did she breathe, long since forgotten by
her thoughtless child, till at last the accents of love were again
lost in the thick struggling sobs of weakness. Again the attendant
offered to remove me: and I, half-wearied with the sadness of the
scene, was not unwilling to go. Yet I tried to soothe a sorrow
which I could not comprehend, by promising that I would soon
return. Once more, with the strength, of agony, my mother pressed
me to her bosom; then, turning away her head, she pushed me
gently from her. I was led from her chamber--the door closed--
heard again the feeble melancholy cry, and her voice was silent
to my ear for ever.

The next day I pleaded in vain to see my mother. Another came,
and every face looked mournfully busy. I saw not my father; but
the few domestics who approached me gazed sadly on my childish
pastime, or uttered an expression of pity, and hurried away. Unhappily,
I scarcely knew why, I remembered my resort in all my
little distresses, and insisted upon being admitted to my mother.
My attendant long endeavoured to evade compliance, and when
she found me resolute, was forced to tell the melancholy truth.
She had so often combated my wilfulness by deceit, that I listened
without believing; yet, when I saw her serious countenance, something
like alarm added to my impatience, and, bursting from her,
I flew to my mother's chamber.

The door which used to fly open at my signal was fastened, and
no one answered my summons: but the key remained in the lock,
and I soon procured admission. All seemed strangely altered
since I saw it last. No trace appeared of mother's presence. Here
reigned the order and the stillness of desolation. The curtains
were drawn back, and the bed arranged with more than wonted
care: yet it seemed pressed by the semblance of a human form.
I drew away the cover, and beheld my mother's face. I thought
she slept; yet the stern quietness of her repose was painful to me.
"Wake, dear mamma!" I hastily cried, and wondered when the
smile of love answered not my call. I reached my hand to touch
her cheek, and started at its coldness: yet, still childishly incre-
dulous of my loss, I sprang upon the bed, and threw my arm
round her neck.

A frightful shriek made me turn, and I beheld my attendant
stretching her arms towards me, as if fearing to approach. Her
looks of horror and alarm,--her incoherent expressions,--the motionless
form before me, at last convinced me of the truth; and all
the vulgar images of death and sepulture rushing on my mind, I
burst into agonies of mingled grief and fear. To be carried hence
by strangers, laid in the earth, shut out for ever from the light and
from me!--I clung to the senseless clay, resolved, while I had life,
to shield my dear mother from such a fate.

My cries assembled the family, who attempted to withdraw me
from the scene. In vain they endeavoured to persuade or to terrify
me. I continued to hang on the bosom which had nourished me,
and to mingle my cries of "Mother! mother!" with vows that I
would never leave her, not though they should hide me with her
in the earth. At last my father commanded the servants to remove
me by force. In vain I struggled and shrieked in anguish. I was
torn, from her,--and the tie was severed for ever!

This presentation of Discipline: A Novel, by Mary Brunton
is Copyright 2003 by P.J. LaBrocca.
It may not be copied, duplicated,
stored or transmitted in any form without written permission.
The text is in the public domain.